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ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981 (Part Eight)
His jaw was clenched as Rufus advanced toward Obaseki. I realized that he was shutting off the reasoning valve and pressing on the throttle of turmoil within the engine of his brain. His sense, judgment, calculation and intelligence was at this point on vacation. The agents of automation were now in control of his anatomy. He was more machine than person, and his entire being was on remote control as Rufus began to press forward.
My granddaughter fine sha!
My granddaughter fine sha!
Those of you who don’t have granddaughters, Olodumare will pese o.
But your granddaughter still won’t be as fine as mine o: just so you know. Kẹ́lẹ́gbẹ́ mẹgbẹ́.
She already eats amala and okra like a professional at seven months.
When we visit Nigeria after the Koro, she will take a tour of all the major Amala joints in Ibadan, starting from Inanstrate at Mokola.
WHY AYO EATS GARI FOR KERESI
“You already know that I personally like to make Gari on Xmas,” he said. “But if you want rice and chicken, Biodun will make them for you. Whatever you want, we will prepare for you and your guests.”
Weather is turning cold.
Weather is turning cold.
Really chilly and rainy
Time to look for those warm things, and drink tea laced with honey. Or whatever.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981, (Part Three)
They took Obaseki to a native doctor in Benin, straight from the police cell.
I ran into him about six months later when he was released.
His condition had deteriorated remarkably. He looked gaunt and shrunk. He must have lost about fifty pounds, (and he weighed not less than 175lbs and stood at 6’ tall when he assaulted Steve). His face had dark blotches and rashes all over it, and he moved with a stoop that made him look much shorter, as he gingerly carried his tray of food from the counter to a table.
I knew that he saw me as I entered the Ekewan campus cafeteria. But he quickly averted his face, pretending that he didn’t notice me. I went to the food counter to place my order. I decided I would surprise him by joining him at his table once I got my food.
Are Africans “shithole” as President Donald Trump has allegedly pontificated?
I arrived the United States in September 1992. When I stepped on US soil at the JFK airport I had exactly $98 in my pocket. Yet by February 1995, I successfully defended my doctoral dissertation at one of the best universities in the United States. I never enjoyed a penny of scholarship money. I was not entitled to, nor did I receive student loan. I worked my way through college.
